


Digitoxin

by RunRabbitRun



Category: Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Biting, Blood Drinking, Dark fic, F/M, Fauns & Satyrs, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Pagan Gods, Pagan!Garrett (AKA Foxglove), The Dark Project era, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1912035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunRabbitRun/pseuds/RunRabbitRun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pagan thief Foxglove is called to have an audience with the Woodsie Lord.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Digitoxin

**Author's Note:**

> More AU time! Yes, Foxglove is Garrett, but if he was raised by the Pagans instead of the Keepers. 
> 
> Fair warning: There is only implied sex in this fic, and that's between two consenting adults. The non-con stuff is sexual in nature, but no sex actually occurs. So, if you are sensitive to that, please tread with care!

“I have a task for you,” Viktoria says, pulling him in close and stroking his hair. He crops it short, unlike the other Pagan men, and she delights in running her long fingers through it. Her bark-rough nails catch in it and he growls happily. She always bites him, scratches at him, but he likes the sting of her claws and the taste of her sap when she allows him to bite her back. “My Foxglove,” she hisses into his ear, “The Woodsie Lord has called for you again.”

Foxglove shudders and buries his face into her neck. Viktoria’s presence no longer makes him fearful and uprooted-feeling, but the Lord Himself is another matter. He makes Foxglove’s blood run hot and fast in his veins and his head swims like he’s been underwater for too long. As if that wasn’t enough, the Lord always gives him a strong drink that makes the world slow and soft. Foxglove very rarely partakes in drinking but when the Woodsie Lord offers you a drinking horn _you_ _accept_.

“And what does His Lordship want of me now?” Foxglove asks in a nettled tone, trailing his green-stained fingers down Viktoria’s spine. She rolls him over and straddles his hips, rucking up his kilt and upsetting the wooden bowl beside them. They’d been eating wild berries and honeysuckle, examining the pretty things Foxglove had brought back from his latest trip into the City. It was his gift, going unseen. It always had been, since he was just a sapling. He’d grown to manhood in the shadows of the trees and the dark hiding places Viktoria showed him. The others call him _sneaksie_ ; Viktoria calls him _favorite_. The manfool baubles he brings her from his thievsie ventures are vulgar and useless, but she keeps the prettiest of them in clutch of moss and vines, deep in her bower, where she can admire them at her leisure.

“You mind your tongue,” she says, lightly running her claws down his bare chest, tattooed with the spread-winged silhouette of a raven in flight. “Your _Lordship_ may favor you but he is no fool. He’ll eat you alive if it pleases him.”

“I’ll watch myself,” Foxglove promises, and levels himself up on his elbows. She grips his hair and tilts his face up for a kiss. It’s long, deep, and it _hurts_ , her sharp teeth nicking his lip. She draws out his blood drop by drop. It pulls at him, deep in his heartwood; he wants to reach for her, but she’s called up snakey creepers to hold him down. Blood is currency here in the forest, and humans like Foxglove pay dearly for protection. He does so gladly; he will always owe Viktoria, and she’ll always pay him back in kind.

She binds him tight with vines and takes and takes and _takes_ from him. The Woodsie Lord has called for him, and there’s no guarantee Viktoria will get her Foxglove back again. For his part, Foxglove gives it back earnestly. He fights his bindings, snapping at her like a beast and pressing soft kisses against her skin in turns. He moves with her, then against her, and lets her move him, just how she likes. It’s how it is, between them. She taught him to like this. He’ll go to the City, to the manfools who cast him out as a cub, and he’ll be enamored with their gems and golden fetters, but he’ll always return to _her,_ to her arms and her vines.

His arms are striped with red when she finally releases him.

“Be mindful,” she says in his ear, curling around him like ivy. “Do as the Lord tells you. I don’t want to have to find another spy as good as you.”

“So sentimental. I didn’t know you cared,” Foxglove says, sneering. He nuzzles her neck and walks one of his lovely, long hands down her side to curl around her hip.

Later, when he can no longer find excuses to dawdle in Viktoria’s bower, Foxglove walks the short path down to the river. It’s dim and cool under the thick canopy of trees, the only light coming from the setting sun and a few stray will o’ the wisps. One breaks away from the group to float curiously above him. He strips off his kilt and boots and slides down the steep, grassy bank to splash into the shallows. The others call him vain and manfoolish for his habit of washing away earth and plant. They like to wear the woods on them, but Foxglove despises the feeling of grit and dirt in the creases of his skin. He wades into the deeper water, up to his waist, and dunks below the surface, scrubbing at his hair and face. He uses handfuls of moss to scrub at stubborn, ground-in soil and picks over his fingernails.

Foxglove is both patient and good at stalling. His Lord has been lenient with him thus far, and Foxglove knows He will appreciate a good presentation. He lingers in the water as long as he can, watching minnows swim between his fingers and recalling the feeling of the Lord’s rough hands on him. Viktoria’s hands were soft as new leaves, but her nails were scratchy. She liked to pull his hair and nip him. It wasn’t so different.

When the sun is fully set and his Wisp companion has started wandering away, Foxglove climbs out of the river and shakes himself off like a wolf. He pulls his kilt and boots back on and tries to press the cowlicks out of his damp hair. He wishes he had thought to carry his dagger with him that evening, but he can’t waste any more time dropping by his hut. Instead, he turns south; away from the path that will lead him back to the Village.

The path meanders and eventually twists back on itself, but Foxglove has been through this part of the forest before. He leaves the trodden earth when it bends and brushes through the undergrowth. The vegetation is thicker here, and the trees are older and bent like rheumatic fingers. There’s no path, but Foxglove knows the way, following the trail of heady-smelling lilac patches until he comes upon a large sequoia, towering above the rest of the trees. The Lord built a house in its branches, an elaborate construction of platforms and rope bridges, every inch of wood or stone carved with runes. The place is soaked in magic so strong even a non-adept like Foxglove can feel it. It addles him slightly, like he’s been nibbling on silver poppies. There are several of the Lord’s _creatures_ ambling around the place, and one of them, a hunched ape-like man, bares its teeth at him and hisses as he passes by. He keeps his eyes to the ground, following the barely-there path lined with phosphorescent toadstools. _Keep to the path, don’t look any of the Things in the eye._

Viktoria is not like him, with her green leafy skin and eyes like hot coals, but she is not like any of these beasts that hoot at him from the shadows, coming just close enough to the path to snarl and swipe at him before loping away, giggling. She’s _not_.

Foxglove’s head is buzzing like a hive by the time he reaches the foot of the tree. A scaly, green skinned monster with segmented eyes and clawed hooks for hands makes a whistling sound at him, and then knocks one of its horrid chitinous appendages against the trunk of the sequoia with a hollow _thunk_. A dubious-looking rope ladder unfurls from somewhere high up in the needles.

It’s a long climb up the unsteady ladder. Things rustle in the brunches of the tree and every so often something that is _definitely not_ sequoia needles will brush his bare back or legs.

His limbs are tired by the time Foxglove clambers up onto the largest wooden platform. There are more ape beasts here, crouched alongside lounging shamans and priests; his Lord’s court. They are gathered around the lit-up archway of a rough wooden hut built of wood and woven vines, like a nest. The charge in the air makes Foxglove stumble as he approaches, and his face burns when the gathered crowd snickers at him.

Dyan, a priestess and close friend of Viktoria, stands up from her spot by the door and sidles up to him. She looks him up and down and plucks a stray needle from his hair.

“He’s waiting for you. Don’t disappoint Him, sneaksie,” she said, a wry smile twitching around her mouth.

The fire burning in the brazier burns white-hot, blinding him for a moment. It’s stifling in the hut, and a heady, herby-smelling smoke hangs in the air. Foxglove’s throat burns from the haze but it fades after a moment. His vision is clearing slowly but he makes himself walk around to the opposite side of the brazier, eyes on the floor to protect them from the bright, white fire, and kneels. For there is the Woodsie Lord, sitting on a throne of living branches, vines, and moss. This is the seat of His power outside of the Maw, and this where Foxglove always goes when he is called for. It’s always difficult to look directly at the Lord without feeling dizzy, so Foxglove keeps his gaze on the Lord’s cloven-hoofed feet.

“Foxglove, my good friend,” the Lord says quietly, “There is no need for scraping on the floor before me like a ruckety toad. We _are_ friends, aren’t we?”

Foxglove swallows dryly. “Yes, Lord.”

“Get up then, and come closer,” the Lord orders. Foxglove swiftly rises and moves a step closer. He looks now at the Lord’s furry knees. He has a drinking horn resting in one hand, filled with the thick, red liquor Foxglove knows so well.

“Closer, Foxglove. Don’t make me shout across the room at you,” the Lord sighs, slightly amused. He’s better amused than angered, but Foxglove isn’t terribly fond of either.

Foxglove steels himself, then steps as close as he dares. His Lord’s eyes burn the same hot-coal red as Viktoria’s. A thrill of what feels like giddy intoxication rushes through him and his takes a single, small step further. The Lord smiles, showing His wolfish teeth.

“Take a dram, my friend,” the Lord says, offering Foxglove His own drinking horn. To drink from the Lord’s own cup is an unparalleled privilege; many would kill for the blessing. Foxglove chews his inner lip and sways a little as he takes the horn without question. The liquor is definitely wine, but it’s thicker and sweeter than any Foxglove would voluntarily drink. It has some kind of spice in it that makes it burn all the way down the throat and smolder in the belly. Foxglove takes a long draught; it would be unforgivable to sip lightly at the gift like a manfoolsie ladylord. It warms him from the inside out, making a light sheen of sweat break out on his neck and chest.

His Lord is still smiling when Foxglove hands back the horn. His claws and eyes shine in the bright light of the brazier.

“Viktoria said you, uh, you have a job. For me,” Foxglove says, grimacing at the way he stumbles a little over his words.

“Right to business as usual,” the Lord chuckles, taking a drink. “I do indeed have a job for you. It’s really more of a quest, my dear Foxglove. Nothing so mundane as snatching up some Hammerhead letterings or gold. I need your _gifts_.” Foxglove maintains his typical neutral expression but his heart begins to drum. “Do you know of the gemstone called the Eye, my Foxglove?”

“Viktoria has… mentioned it,” Foxglove says carefully.

“Has she now?” the Lord murmurs into the drinking horn. He tips the horn back and drinks in great, deep swallows. Foxglove watches the rhythmic bob of His throat and the way the red liquor shines on His white, white teeth when He pulls back with a satisfied sigh. “Come finish this, Foxglove, I’ve had my fill.”

Loose limbed and feeling more loopy by the second, Foxglove takes the horn and drinks the last few fingers of wine. He’s just swallowing when a huge, calloused hand closes around his wiry wrist and yanks him forward, into the Lord’s lap. Foxglove coughs in surprise and drops the horn, a few errant drops of wine spilling onto his shoulder. The Lord’s radiates heat; His arm around Foxglove’s waist is like a brand. The coarse fur on the Lord’s legs itch and the extremely distinct hardness of His maleness presses against the backs of Foxgloves thighs through the layers of His loincloth and Foxglove’s kilt.

Foxglove wants to tear away and his hand yearns for the cold metal of his dagger, but his own rising arousal and the strong wine are both betraying him. The Lord has that effect on most humans, the sudden rush of lust and the near-overwhelming desire to roll over like a dog. Viktoria’s mere presence used to do the same thing to Foxglove before he became accustomed to her.

Foxglove will never be accustomed to the power of his Lord. Shame floods his veins like frost while heat pools in his belly. He is an excitable young buck again and _he hates it_.

The Lord traces the trail of wine down Foxglove’s shoulder and runs a rough fingertip over a fading lovebite on his neck, a souvenir from Viktoria.

“What else has Viktoria told you?”

“Only,” Garrett swallows and pauses for breath, “Only that there is such as thing. That’s _all_ ,” he grits out when the Lord’s claws dig sharply into his waist.

“Good, good. I would hate to have all my surprises spoiled. Viktoria does enjoy spoiling, doesn’t she?” A long tongue, barbed like a cat’s, laps up the drying trails of wine on Foxglove’s skin.

“She’s good at it,” Foxglove says, feeling like a will o’ the wisp, floating slightly outside his own skin. The Lord chuckles, His mouth pressed to Foxglove’s collarbone.

“You will obtain the Eye for me,” He says, His words buzzing against Foxglove’s skin. “It will be dangerous, but you’re more than just a sneaksie little crow, aren’t you?” The points of His black claws prick Foxglove’s belly as He trails them ever lower. “It’s hidden well away, in the dead cathedral of the Hammerheads. You know the one, yes?”

“I-I do.” Dread now joins the riot of desire and shame in Foxglove’s gut. The dead cathedral in the walled-off part of the City is a cursed place. There are rumored to be piles of unclaimed wealth there, but Foxglove has never entertained the thought of robbing the place; he rather values his own skin.

“Good,” the Lord says. “I trust you’ll be able to start on your own.” Then He snatches Foxglove’s chin in one hand and kisses him hard.

When He draws away Foxglove is panting like a beast. He chokes on his own breath when the Lord’s claws score his hip, leaving red welts and tiny droplets of blood in their wake.

“Go then,” the Lord says. He caresses Foxglove’s cheek, His claws dangerously close to one of Foxglove’s grey eyes. His thumb presses against Foxglove’s bottom lip. _Don’t bite him_ , Foxglove commands himself. “Be successful in your endeavor and I will reward you handsomely.” He then grips a handful of Foxglove’s dark hair in His fist and pulls, forcing Foxglove’s head back and exposing his throat. “Fail me and the consequences will be dire.”

The bite to his shoulder is excruciating, the Lord’s sharp teeth slicing straight through flesh and deep into muscle. Just a fingerwidth closer to his throat and Foxglove would bleed out in moments, but the Lord is deliberate. He draws two mouthfuls of Foxglove’s blood before He releases him. One hard shove and Foxglove is stumbling to his feet, one hand clasped over the bite and the other clenched at his side, searching for his absent dagger.

“Still so bitter,” the Lord laughs. “Perhaps you’ll have a care to sweeten your temper next time I call for you.” He wipes His mouth on His hairy fist and then lazily flicks His hand towards the doorway. “Now get you gone.”

Foxglove doesn’t need to be told twice.

Dyan catches him when he stumbles out the door and onto the balcony. She makes a tutting noise and peels Foxglove’s hand away from his shoulder. Hissing sympathetically, she whispers spells into his skin, stopping the flow of blood. It will take Viktoria’s magic to heal him completely, but Dyan is not without her power. “Go to her, foolsie,” Dyan says firmly, gently petting him. Foxglove’s skin crawls at the contact, but he has no desire to hurt Dyan. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

“Trouble is my business,” Foxglove snaps, pushing away from her.

His shoulder throbs all the way back to Viktoria’s bower.


End file.
